I have fallen in love with a most unexpected candidate. It happened, as love often does, over a period of time. There was a stroll in the park where, among the naked trees, I walked through a gallery of a hundred different-shaped pieces of art — summer homes curated by mocking birds, starlings, cardinals and robins, and now abandoned in the crooks where barren branches meet bare trunks.
There was that morning where I woke up to a blanket of white that turned the concrete yard into Monet’s snow scene, and the smell of ice on rivers 120 miles north engulfed my nostrils snuffing out the odor of exhaust and subways.
There was the night so crisp and clear that it felt possible to just reach my hand up, pluck the moon out of the sky and pop it into my mouth, knowing it would have tasted of mountain tops and honeysuckle. And underneath Capella I wished for better mittens so I could stay out just another hour.
Winter…I had never expected to like it, let alone love it. The final straw, however — the one that led to the fall — was the flash of red of a downy woodpecker’s head against a snowy bough, the scarlet wing of a male cardinal, and the cornflower blue of six blue jays at the feeder. When the Earth lays herself bare, when the curtains of leaves have gone, when the canvas becomes shades of white and grey, another beautiful world can be seen.
I’d missed it all — for years I’ve hibernated the minute the Christmas gifts are unwrapped until the yellow of daffodils trumpet the arrival of spring (which in the North East U.S. can be four long months).
Years ago I had started writing a poem about a summer fairy who sleeps all winter, and therefore misses the season’s treasures. Yesterday, bizarrely, I came across it yellowing in an old box as I was clearing out a closet. Perhaps it wanted to be found. Now that I have begun to see the gifts of winter, I might just be able to finish writing it.